Here Be Dragons
by WillSherJohnKhan
Summary: Sherlock isn't feeling quite himself. Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. I just like to play with them every now and then. The fanart that inspired this story can be found at:
1. Consumed By One's Inner Dragon

"I consider myself married to my work."

"I'm a high-functioning sociopath."

"All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots."

"Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side."

"I don't have friends."

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."

These were a few, but by no means all, of the ridiculous mantras Sherlock Holmes, world's only Consulting Detective, and all round pain in the arse lived by.

The more he espoused these stupid statements, the more they became fact, in his mind at least.

And as such, they proved to be his ultimate downfall...

221B BAKER STREET – BEDROOM

Sherlock opened his eyes, and groaned. He felt like he'd been on a drug-fuelled bender after running a marathon, maybe several marathons. His whole body ached, and the more he tried to get comfortable the more pain he felt.

Even getting himself up into a sitting position proved extremely difficult, but once he'd managed it, he became aware of the smoke-haze that hung over his bed. And yet he had no memory of smoking the night before.

Unable to twist himself around to get out of bed, he ended up getting on all fours to crawl to the end of the bed, where he promptly lost his balance, plunging headfirst.

As he toppled off the end of the bed he automatically braced for impact. Instead however he managed to perform an impressive summersault that ended with him landing on his feet. It was only then that he realised how unbalanced and top heavy he felt. Taking an unsteady step forward he felt something wrap itself around his legs, impeding his momentum forward, and he fell face-forward to the floor.

His overriding thought, once he could formulate one was, 'What the bloody hell did I take last night?'

Raising his head he looked around to see what had tripped him up. And that's when he spotted something that looked suspiciously like a tail, a highly unusual tail.

With some effort he managed to struggle to his feet, and began to walk towards his chest-of-draws. But as he passed the full length mirror something extraordinary caught his eye, and he paused to investigate.

What he saw in the reflection left him momentarily stunned. He felt like he was looking through someone, or rather something else's eyes. His face and upper body still looked familiar, but even so there was no disguising the fact that he had undergone what could only be best described as a radical transformation.

His hair had been flattened, save for a few errant curls that fell across his forehead. Keeping his hair down was a crest of horns that had also elongated his ears. His skin around his now pointed ears had a golden brown hue to it. A colour that was also reflected in his eyebrows and eyes, although if he looked close enough he could still make out a flicker of familiar blue and green.

Golden brown also covered his shoulders. The skin here was covered in an elaborate pattern of scales of varying sizes that although soft to the touch were extremely strong, like armour. These same scales were visible all over his body, some light, others dark.

Two magnificent wings protruded out from his shoulder-blades. The membrane looked very thin, but was flexible and incredibly strong. Keeping the membrane in place was a patchwork of delicate, hollow bones, three of which extended past the membrane to form a thumb and two finger-like appendages.

The tail extended out from his tailbone. It was long and thin, with thorny spikes all along its entire length, ending with an arrow shaped tip. The tail was strong and flexible, and like the wings was prehensile.

Around his neck and upper arms were items of jewellery. They were made from the finest gold, inserted into the gold were sparkling rubies and garnets.

His nose, lips, arms, hands, legs and feet at least still appeared human. And although he still remained slim, his shoulders were now broad, while his chest had expanded to become much more powerful.

Abruptly Sherlock turned away and let out an agonised roar that resulted in a plume of flame emerging from his mouth. And with an audible 'WHOOSH' the chest-of-draws with its impeccably maintained sock index, was instantly incinerated.

Sherlock stared aghast at the little pile of smoking ash.

"Well shit," he muttered, before making his way over to the bedroom door.

But when he tried to walk through, he discovered that couldn't fit through the doorframe. Having no control over the appendages that had sprung out from his shoulder-blades, and as they stubbornly refused to fold back to allow him through he ended up having to take the matter into his own hands, quite literally. With the only way to deal with them requiring Sherlock to reach behind and take hold of each wing, pulling them close together so that he could fit through the door.

221B BAKER STREET – SITTING ROOM

Once out he made his way to the sitting room. He opened his mouth, intending to call out to Mrs Hudson, when he remembered what happened in his bedroom. So instead he walked over to the door to his flat, opened it, and called out as loud as he dared. "Mrs Hudson!"

To his relief only smoke emerged through his lips.

Shortly after the familiar footsteps of his elderly landlady could be heard coming up the stairs.

To her credit Mrs Hudson didn't bat an eyelid upon discovering that her tenant had transformed into a dragon. But given what she had to put up from him: body parts in the fridge, unsavoury types coming and going at all hours, bullets being fired into the wall because he was bored. This no doubt was the least of her worries.

"I need food now," Sherlock demanded, feeling unusually ravenous.

"Of course dear, you sit and relax, and I'll be back in a jiffy," she responded calmly, in a soothing motherly tone.

After Mrs Hudson had gone back downstairs to make his breakfast, Sherlock realising just how exhausted he was from the mornings events, decided to take his landlady's advice and attempted to sit down in his chair, only his newly acquired tail and wings made it almost impossible.

"What is the point of you?" he snarled, immediately becoming irritable when the wings continued to refuse to co-operate. A deep, rumbling growl of frustration emerged from his lips, as he attempted to do all he could to not lose his temper.

As he continued his struggle a cheerful voice from the doorway noted. "Wings are quite handy actually. They allow you to fly."


	2. Not Your Ordinary Case

Molly Hooper had a most unusual problem that needed solving. But she knew she was going to need someone very particular to help her out.

For this was no ordinary, run-of-the-mill type situation. It required someone who could look outside the box in order to find the solution.

She then remembered hearing rumours about a man who had made a career out of specialising in the type of cases that were beyond the scope of Scotland Yard. The type of problems generally categorised as surprising, funny or odd. It was also said that he defended those regarded as different.

And that was precisely the type of man she needed.

As she set out for Baker Street, she could only hope that all she had heard about him turned out to be true.

BAKER STREET, LONDON, W1

Making her way along Baker Street, Molly began to have second thoughts.

Her story was just too incredible, and completely unimaginable to comprehend. Why would anyone, let alone one purported to be of the calibre of Sherlock Holmes believe anything she had to say.

As she approached the famed detectives address, she was overwhelmed by a need to turn tail and go back the way she had come, when she became aware of something taking place from the upper level flat. An inhuman roar filled with agony and despair filled her ears, followed by the unmistakable whoosh of expelled flame.

These sounds were music to Molly's ears. Everything might be all right after all.

221B BAKER STREET

Molly made her way up the stairs. As she reached the landing she could hear down below the landlady making preparations for breakfast. She was also aware of the presence in the upper flat.

As she walked over to the already open door, she saw that her conclusions about the detective were spot on. Pride, arrogance and a supreme sense of his own superiority over others had led to him being currently in the process of transforming into a dragon.

He was still in the dragon-kind midpoint stage of his transformation.

And he clearly wasn't happy about it.

"What exactly is the point of you?" the exasperated question was directed at the wings he was attempting to get out of his way, having still not yet learned how to control them.

His predicament brought a smile to Molly's lips, as she noted cheerily. "Wings are quite handy actually. They allow you to fly."

There was barely any warning, just a snap and a flick, and then the sensation of a dragon's tail wrapping itself around her, before she was lifted in the air and held up for inspection.

With his head cocked to the side, Sherlock took his time to peruse the woman, his gaze taking inventory of everything about her, head to toe.

Lifting her even higher, he queried curiously. "And who might you be, may I ask?"

"Molly Hooper," Molly responded.

Sherlock frowned, something wasn't adding up. Leaning forward, he sniffed her cautiously. Pulling back, he appraised her once again.

"You appear human," he sniffed her again carefully to confirm his assessment. "Yet you don't smell like one."

Unwise as it was to look a dragon in the eye, Molly felt confident enough that Sherlock wasn't aware of that particular power as yet, to do precisely that. "You're right," she answered honestly. "I'm not human, I'm fae. Or at least I was."

"By fae, you mean as in fairy?"

Molly nodded.

"And why does a fairy require the services of a Consulting Detective, pray tell?"

"I was placed under a curse by..."

Before she could finish her explanation, Sherlock had already made his mind up.

"Boring!" he pronounced, and promptly threw her across the room.

Thanks to her still reasonably quick reflexes, Molly managed to ensure that she landed safely on the sofa.

Getting to her feet, she decided she'd had enough of his attitude, whether human or dragon, Molly was about to give Sherlock a piece of her mind when an outraged 'yelps' had her rushing over to see what the problem was.

His transformation thus far had taken place while he had been sleeping. But now he was seeing it in action, and the visual, let alone the sensation had Sherlock as close as he'd ever come to an all out panic attack as he observed and felt claws and talons replacing his finger and toenails.

"What the hell, this cannot be happening?"

Molly heard the panic in his voice, and made her way over to him. She placed her hands firmly on his shoulders. "Sherlock, you need to calm down," she instructed. "Take deep even breaths, and concentrate on the thought 'retract.'"

Sherlock does as she suggests, and to his surprise, and great relief his fingers and toes return to normal.

Molly stepped back.

"Will that work to get rid of the rest of all this?" he asked, his question showing true vulnerability.

"No," Molly replied. "A stronger magic is required to reverse such a transformation."

'What type of stronger magic, like Fairy magic?' It suddenly occurred to the dragonised detective that helping her out would benefit him greatly.

"All right I'll take the case," he announced, making his way towards the doorway.

"Whoa there, where do you think you're going?" Molly enquired.

Sherlock turned back to her, his expression one of annoyance, "To hail a taxi, obviously."

Molly shook her head, as a delightful giggle escaped her lips as she pointed out. "There's no way you'll fit in a taxi, or a train carriage for that matter."

"So what do you suggest we do?" Sherlock huffed out impatiently, a small trickle of smoke emerging from his nostrils.

Molly indicated his newly acquired appendages with a nod of her head. "You fly."

"I don't fly," he huffed indignantly.

"You are Dragon-kind now Sherlock," Molly reminded him, her tone turning serious. "You have wings. It's time you learned to use them."


	3. Learning to Fly

HYDE PARK – LONDON – EVENING

"Whoa! Whoa! No! No! No!" Sherlock bellowed as trees emerged as if from nowhere, forcing him to duck and weave the end result sending him spinning out of control twisting and turning like a whirling dervish.

"You're losing altitude Sherlock. Flap your wings faster or you'll..."

The instructions from below went unheeded, with the inevitable result.

"Oh shit!" and then the all too familiar sound of impact as Sherlock crash landed, yet again.

Molly rushed over to assist him, but Sherlock would have none of it.

"Are you all right?" she asked, giggling in obvious amusement as she attempted to help him to his feet.

Sherlock tore his arm from her grasp with an angry snarl. "You think this is funny?"

"A little bit," Molly admitted, while doing her best to appear contrite. Laughing at one's pupil was bad form. But seeing the funny side of things was part of her fae nature.

That she found his predicament humorous didn't help Sherlock's temper, in fact it only served to enrage him further.

He stood straight and tall, towering over the diminutive woman before him. The dragon-like aspects of his personality coming to the fore, having been triggered by his increasingly foul mood.

Sherlock began circling Molly in an unmistakably predatory fashion, becoming more bestial as he worked himself into a rage, growling and snarling and baring his teeth, his tail flicking and snapping like a whip as his agitation grew. His crest of horns stood to attention, while his eyes glowed hot, going from golden to red with only the barest hint of his original blue/green colour remaining.

Standing with his wings spread wide, his chest heaving as his breathing sped up, causing a hissing sound to emerge as smoke poured from his nostrils. This was followed by the telltale glow of ignited flame, coursing through his veins, moving with lightening speed from his abdomen, over his chest and up his throat, giving fair warning that it was about to emerge from his mouth.

It was a truly terrifying spectacle, but all Molly could think was how magnificent he appeared in all his serpentine glory. It was an astounding transformation.

But she knew she needed to remain professional. "You need to learn control," she instructed sternly.

Molly felt the full blast of his heated breath as he turned his frustration on her. "Well you could help by giving a demonstration. But wait, oh no you can't can you, you no longer possess wings!" Sherlock pointed out petulantly, his tone sarcastic.

Molly's response was immediate, and totally unexpected. The first Sherlock knew of it was the sharp, stinging sensation when the palm of her hand connected with first his left cheek, then his right, and back to his left again Tears of hurt poured down her face but the hurt she felt helped to fuel her own anger. She was damned if she was going to let him take his aggression out on her. And time was of the essence.

Taken aback Sherlock reared back in shock, surprised by both her vehemence, and her spunk.

"You need to focus Sherlock," Molly instructed bringing them back to the task at hand.

"I was," he interrupted, a pout forming on his cupids bow lips. "I was calculating all the permutations and variables of atmospheric pressure, and..."

"And that's your problem right there," Molly interjected, as she reached up to lay her hand against his chest. "Flying is intuitive. It comes from the heart not the head. Constantly thinking about what may happen due to external factors only distracts from the innate ability that will guide you if you freely give yourself over to its care."

"That's fine for you," Sherlock huffed dejectedly. "You were born able to fly. I wasn't."

Molly didn't take offence, she sympathised with him. As things stood, both were learning to deal with things that were completely out of their control.

"But you have that ability now. You just have to learn to trust it," she said in an encouraging tone.

Sherlock still didn't look convinced.

"If you can't trust it, will you at least trust me?" Molly asked.

Sherlock considered her request for a moment or two before nodding his agreement.

The smile that lit up her face, coupled with the feel of her hand still resting on his chest caused a particular sensation in the region where the heart he always claimed he didn't possess resided.


	4. The Professor of Baskerville Hall

GRIMPEN VILLAGE – DARTMOOR

It was a dark and stormy night. Not that unusual in this part of the country at this time of year. And yet, the residents in the small village were wary and on edge. All doors and windows were bolted firmly, and no-one dared step out of doors after nightfall.

Not since Baskerville Hall had become occupied once more.

BASKERVILLE HALL

The house glimmered like a ghost at the end of the avenue. The centre was a heavy block of building from which a porch projected. The whole front was draped in ivy, with a patch clipped here and there where a window or a coat of arms broke through the dark veil. From this central block rose the twin towers, ancient battlements, pierced with many loopholes. To right and left of the turrets were more modern wings of black granite. A dull light shone through heavy mullioned windows, and from the high chimneys which rose from the steep, high-angled roof there sprang a single black column of smoke.

James Moriarty, failed professor of mathematics and inept criminal mastermind was in desperate need of a change in fortune. Regarded with disdain in his first choice of career, and as a joke in his second, he was determined to excel at something so devious and unorthodox that it would send shivers up and down the spines of those that had taken great delight in mocking him.

And then one day opportunity fell into his lap as he read an article about the fearsome history of the abandoned manor of Baskerville Hall. The article ended with...

'There are certain things here which are impossible to reconcile to the settled order of nature. Tis a worthy setting if the Devil did decide to dabble in the affairs of man, where the powers of evil are exulted.'

"It is indeed..." Moriarty murmured to himself, his black eyes sparkling with an unholy glee as the beginnings of a devastatingly diabolical plan began to take shape in his evilly twisted mind.

Several weeks later in the company of his faithful companion and fallen peer of the realm, Sebastian Moran, and armed with the knowledge they had acquired on the occult they set off for the infamous Hall of the doomed Baskervilles.

Along the way they picked up a stray waif, in the form of former chemist, now drug addict Billy Wiggins.

GRIMPEN VILLAGE

Moriarty's presence was immediately felt, even though he rarely made an appearance in person in the village.

On the few occasions when he did, those he interacted with were left feeling queasy in the pit of their stomachs, and troubled and uneasy in their minds without quite comprehending why. When pressed all they could say was that it had something to do with the unnerving way he had looked at them.

For the most part it was Billy they dealt with, as he was despatched on any number of errands, while Moriarty and Moran set about putting their plan into action.

And once they had the villagers cherished feelings of security vanished forever.

BASKERVILLE HALL

The gates were a maze of wrought iron, with weather bitten pillars on either side, blotched with lichens, and surrounded by boars' heads of the Baskervilles.

Strong they may have been, but they were of little deterrent to anyone game enough to scale them. But no one from the village was fool enough to try.

In reality there was little need for the gates at all, not since Moriarty had used the information he had gathered on the occult. He used it to call upon the Devil himself, willingly exchanging his soul and that of his co-conspirator Moran for the ability to perform the darkest of dark magic.

The Devil granted the former Professor his request, before offering him the use of his most trusted sentinels...

Gigantic black hyena-shaped monstrously brutish beasts born in the bowels of Hell itself now patrolled the grounds of Baskerville Hall.

Their fur glowed red in the dead of night, as did their fiercely burning eyes. They possessed powerful shoulders and legs, which allowed them to move with the speed and unpredictability of lightening. Their equally powerful jaws capable of crushing bone like they were made of sticks of celery. Smoke poured from their nostrils, while their slavering mouths released a lava-like substance capable of inflicting third degree burns should it make contact with human or animal flesh.

All this unnatural activity had caught Molly's attention. Her curiosity to learn what was going on drawing her closer than she should ever have come. Too late she realised her mistake when her presence was detected, and she was caught.

Moriarty had just been on the verge of beginning some new experiments when the fairy was brought before him. And it was then that inspiration struck. Instead of using the hapless Billy as the guinea pig, Molly would make a more suitable candidate.

Using the dark powers the Devil had given him, Moriarty stripped the fairy of her fae magic, and destroyed her wings. Once finished he mercilessly threw her outside, where the hounds soon caught a whiff of her scent. In her weakened state she didn't stand a chance.

It was entirely thanks to the swift and timely actions of Billy Wiggins that she was able to get away safely.

It had been several weeks since that incident, and Billy was still alive, and reasonably unharmed, but it came at a terrible cost.

Moriarty had been initially furious, and Billy was certain he was about to meet his maker, when without warning he was ordered to go to the main road and bring back any tramps or gypsies he encountered along the way.

Knowing his own life was on the line he had reluctantly done as he had been instructed. And he had continued to do so whenever the Professor needed his next batch of unwitting lab rats.

Tonight however he had been told to go to the Grimpen Mire to collect an assortment of mosses and the like.

As he approached the dreaded mire he turned on his torch. Everywhere he looked was bleak and uninviting, and incredibly dangerous. Many an unlucky Moor pony had been sucked under due to a misjudged step.

Making his way into the murky depths Billy wondered, not for the first time, if this nightmare was ever going to come to an end.


	5. On a Wing and a Prayer

HYDE PARK – LONDON – EARLY MORNING

After a shaky start Sherlock, having put his faith, not to mention his life into Molly's capable hands, mastered the basic tenets of flying. To his relief his wings indeed knew what they had to do, seeking out the air currents and using them to soar high above the clouds, before swooping low enabling Sherlock to appreciate the incredible view all around him. And as his confidence grew, his wings began to feel more a part of him.

Molly was impressed by how proficient and adept he had become in such a short period of time. She was also relived. With that invaluable skill mastered meant they could get to their destination much faster.

And time was of the essence. To that end she needed to bring the dragonised detective back down to earth.

"Sherlock!" she called up to him. "We need to get moving."

Sherlock swooped down once more, making a perfect landing. By the time he made his way over to Molly, he had his wings securely tucked away.

"So where exactly are we headed?" he asked, eager for the opportunity to really stretch his wings.

"Dartmoor," Molly responded.

EN ROUTE TO DARTMOOR

Molly sat astride Sherlock as he ploughed through the clouds, the rhythmic beat of his wings reminiscent of a hurricane.

Her emotions at that moment were of extremes. She felt exhilarated being high off the ground in the fresh air, the feel of it caressing her skin, rekindling treasured memories. But those memories left her feeling heartbroken for what had been so cruelly stolen from her.

Perhaps sensing the turmoil of emotions, Sherlock chose that moment to intrude upon her thoughts to enquire. "Don't you think now would be a good time to explain what happened to you?" he asked as gently as he could.

"I allowed my curiosity to get the better of me and paid the price," came her bitter reply.

"Explain," the Consulting Detective was on the case.

"I became aware of some unusual, and by unusual I mean supernatural, goings on at an old abandoned manor house," Molly explained. "But when I went in for a closer look I was captured."

"Who by?"

"I don't know their names, but there were two men. One of whom was referred to as Professor."

"What happened next?"

A sob escaped as Molly replied. "They performed various experiments on me."

"What type of experiments?" the question was direct, and may have been regarded by some as cruel, but Sherlock needed data.

"In the use of dark spells and curses," Molly said. "But it was clear they were armatures, they weren't well acquainted with how magic works. So it took a number of attempts before they achieved their ultimate goal."

Sherlock felt anger rising through him for what had been done to the fairy. He was no more the expert in magic than those she had been unfortunate enough to encounter. But he knew torture when he heard it. "How did you escape?"

"With the aid of a poor soul they treated more like a slave than a servant. If it wasn't for him I dread to think what would have become of me." Molly shuddered at the very thought of the terrible experience she had been forced to endure.

"So why come to me?" Sherlock asked genuinely curious. What Molly had told him thus far was well out of his realm of expertise. And then a worrying possibility crossed his mind. "Do you think my transformation is linked to one of their wayward curses?"

Molly gave his question some serious thought. He was right to ask why an ordinary, human investigator, even one with his reputation could help her in this matter.

Had the professor of Baskerville Hall been the conduit of Sherlock's mysterious transformation? Or had her need for someone quite extraordinary been the cause? Or was it something else completely?

In the end all she could offer him was, "To be honest Sherlock, I really don't know. But maybe we'll find a more definitive answer once we get there."


End file.
